


Don't you remember the Sunlight?

by hisfairassasin



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-28
Updated: 2015-04-28
Packaged: 2018-03-26 04:58:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3837973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hisfairassasin/pseuds/hisfairassasin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She knows him even when he barely knows himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't you remember the Sunlight?

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own anything. Characters belong to the CW

That is not my name” he growls into the space separating them.

He watches the girl take a step closer and he stiffens. He does not know who she is but somehow his body is going on muscle memory at the sight of her. His hands clench into fists, something startling is happening in his chest. He thinks it might actually be his heart.

The girl, no not a girl, woman, tilts her head to the side, her eyes narrowing behind the glasses she wears.

He realizes something then.

“You’re not afraid of me”.

The woman’s eyes widen slightly before her gaze softens into a hollow sadness.

“Why would I be afraid of you, Oliver?“

There she goes again speaking a name so foreign, yet the shift in his chest starts up again and he brings a hand to rub at his chest. Everything aches. The light from the street lamp illuminates her face.

Blonde hair curling across her shoulders in waves; he remembers the island, these memories too ingrained in him to forget. He recalls the way the sunlight bent through the canopy of trees, the only source of warmth on that piece of purgatory.

Her hair, he thinks, is like that sunlight.

The thought comes unbidden and strange and Al Sah-him cannot make sense of it. He shakes his head, his hands closing into fists as he presses them against his eyelids.

“You know me” her voice startles him, it unhinges a memory, or maybe a dream, he can’t tell.

_I know who you are._

“Don’t delude yourself. You are no one to me” his words ricochet off her, they seem to only make her that much more determined.

“Your name is Oliver Queen. You’re a son, a brother, a friend, a hero. Don’t you dare tell me otherwise. I know you’re in there somewhere. I know you better than anyone, Oliver.”

She is spitfire, she is all consuming and he cannot look away from her. Blue eyes lit with the afterglow of the street lamp, lips set into a determined line.

“Wake up” the woman implores.

She’s standing inches from him now and he can’t find it within him to move. That muscle memory comes into play and he finds his hands moving. His palms are open and reaching out but for what he doesn’t know. Anger burns in his veins and he suddenly can’t do it. She’s asking too much, seeing too much. He’s no one, he’s shadow and moonlight now.

He isn’t the man she’s looking for.

He’s moving away from her now, but she follows him. Her heels clacking against the cement and just like that something unfurls in his mind. He sees a set of stairs, medal and grey. He recalls a swishing skirt and red heels pounding determinedly against the steps. Another image flashes and he sees red fingernails against scarred skin. His skin.

“Who am I, Oliver?” The woman is demanding as he halts in place.

The street is empty, quiet for once.

 _Oliver_.

_Al Sah-him._

“Stop it” he’s imploring her, a plea in his gaze. She’s having none of it. He’s never met a woman like her before. Something warm lands on his cheeks and he realizes it’s her hands. They hold him in place, the lump in his chest beating frantically. He struggles to breathe.

“I need you to open your eyes now” she says, so quietly.

But if he opens them, if he allows himself to remember it will hurt. He doesnt think he’ll survive any of it.

“Oliver, Oliver, my Oliver. Come back” this time there are tears in her voice and then she has her arms wrapped around him and doesnt know what to do. For a moment his hands stay where they are by his sides, clenched into fists. Then he feels her breath across his neck from where she’s leaning up against him.

“Who are you?” He begs and for a moment the woman’s steel gaze fractures into a world of pain he can’t even imagine. But then its gone and the fire is back and goddamn it his lungs are burning.

“Oliver Queen? Hi. My name is Felicity Smoak”

 The words are a whisper across the shell of his ear.

Felicity Smoak.

 _Felicity_.

He’s dreamt that name before, he knows it. Back before it wasn’t all darkness and death, back before the shadows hadn’t swallowed him whole.

“Don’t you remember? Don’t you know we’re all waiting for you?"

 “Who?” He croaks as his head dips slightly.

He doesnt realize he’s begun to lean on her.

“Thea, John, Roy, Laurel, me. Your family, Oliver.”

 _Family_.

“I don’t understand” he whispers and he thinks if he buries his face against her neck, if he breathes in the scent of her then he just might get it. So he does just that. He feels her sharp inhale, the pounding of her heart.

“I know you. I think I had a dream of you once. But I cant be sure”.

He knows he’s not making much sense. He feels her sob and grips her tighter. He understands that he doesnt like to see her in pain. But then she’s pushing back and grabbing his face in her palms once more and says,

“You know what I’m sure of?” The words resonate, some part of him remembering a distant flicker of a memory.

“I’m sure that your name is Oliver Queen and I’m sure that I am completely in love with you”.

It should be impossible. It should only ever make sense in movies or books. But the second she utters those words, the second her confession hits his ears a tidal wave of images bury him.

He remembers a cubicle and curly blonde hair. There was a pen; it was red. He remembers a cold cave of sorts that held green leather and arrows; he recalls the glare of monitors and a ponytail swinging as a girl spins in a leather chair. He remembers arguments and gauze and stitches. He sees warm small hands press against his and realizing there was no choice to make.

He remembers swinging from buildings and bullets. Fuschia smiles and sky blue eyes that know no bounds.

There had been mistakes and words left unsaid and other women and distant dreams. There had been a truth come to light wrapped up in a lie and an ocean where purgatory didnt hurt so much because she was beside him.

A rocket and Italian food, saying goodbye and florescent hospital hallways.

There’d been a confession, an absolution and then darkness.

A mountain top and the devil, a sword and a fall.

There was home again and blue eyes dimmed by an unchanging heart.

Then Nanda Parbat and silk sheets and a thousand candles and finally, finally coming back from that island only to have created another one in its place. She had called out, he remembers this.

She had called out something when he pushed them past the edge on a warm night. A name. He remembers her voice full of blissful content and recalls peace for the first time in years. The name she had called out…what was it?

But he knows.

He knows and when he puts it altogether his knees give out. She falls to the cement with him, holding him as he tries to deal with years of memories. How could he forget? She’s been saying it all along.

“Oliver” he croaks out and feels her stiffen in his arms.

She pulls back to look at him, hope so much hope that it obliterates him into pieces.

How could he forget the face of hope?

“What did you say?”

He’s looking into her eyes as he rests his forehead against hers. A small tired smile tugs at his lips and she gasps.

“My name. My name is Oliver and you…you’re Felicity. My Felicity."


End file.
